


Dibs

by ergo_existence



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M, Modern AU, prompt/summary, user: tvckingtons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 16:33:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2032038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ergo_existence/pseuds/ergo_existence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are certain laws humans abide by. There is one important law, that above all, must be followed.</p><p>Dibs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dibs

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think. This was done on a whim.  
> [locvs changed to tvckingtons shortly after posting this]  
> ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ*: ･ﾟ✧

There were men and women in the world that wanted to conquer, to establish dominance; change the world in myriad ways; bring about revolution, challenge communism, capitalism, anarchy.

Tucker? Tucker just wanted to get _l-a-i-d_.

Really. That’s it. He was banging a hot chick, okay, they’re both objects to each other – _totally_ equal here, Tucker isn’t a dick – then all of a sudden there’s some dude that’s at _least_ four inches taller than him (probably the same amount below the waist) and suddenly – okay, there’s a common theme here – he’s kicked out, fuckin’ stark naked on the balcony. _Balcony._ What idiot thinks that’s gonna solve shit?

So that evening hasn’t gone exactly as he’s planned.

Then it feels like there’s _kind_ of a lifeline, and inwardly he’s reassuring himself _‘s only three feet, for real_ , and he climbs across to this other apartment and he _swears_ and _hopes_ there’s some reasonable, single, lonely dude that’ll say ‘I get you’, give him some _clothes_ and maybe a beer, if he’s lucky, and he’ll be on his merry way.

He knocks on the door, gulps, one hand covering his dick because first of all it’s _autumn,_ and it’s borderline fucking getting cold. He also adds: _please be a single dude. Please._

Oh, yeah, there’s a cute freckled guy that opens the door all right – he _might_ be single, if the heavens align for Tucker – but oh no. Oh no.

There’s a whole _party_ going on.

So the freckled-and-very-fuckin’-cute guy raises his eyebrow like he was _born_ to, like he came out of the womb with a single, blond raised eyebrow – and Tucker just sighs. He just sighs. He’s reached his maximum boiling point now.

“Chick I was banging had her boyfriend come home,” he says, like it happens a _lot_ (okay, it’s not his fault, it happened _once_ and it was her cousin). “Only choice was climbing across. Can I come in? I’m about to freeze my balls off. _Literally_.”

Then some blonde pair drift up behind like spectres, and she’s got lavender tips and did Tucker mention he’s totally had it? Because he has. And Freckly Dude is totally giving him the surreptitious up-and-down look. He recognises it ‘cause he’s doing it to Freckly Dude, too.

“C’mon, Wash, let the guy in. You always take in strays, anyway,” the girl remarks, with a sardonic grin. “Not much of a jump for you, unlike _this_ guy.”

“I’ll get beers,” Other Blond Guy adds, and frankly, Tucker is _so glad._ They’re kind of nice. If the Blond Girl didn’t look like she’d _totally_ rip his balls off if he was a pervert.

Freckly Dude Who Also Happens To Be Cute rolls his eyes and makes sure Tucker follows behind him, and Tucker realises there’s a _fair_ amount of people in the room.

He doesn’t care by then because Cute Freckly Dude is wearing tight jeans and has a very nice ass.

“These clothes will do,” Cute Freckly Dude says. “By the way, I’m Wash.”

“Tucker,” he responds, looking at the top just _slightly_ too big, but it'll do. It’ll do. “Thanks.”

Wash nods his head, looks away, but then back up. “So how did you _exactly_ come to the conclusion scaling across to my balcony was a good idea?”

“I’m Indiana Jones at heart,” Tucker replies brusquely, the t-shirt comfortably fitting. He can tell Wash wants to leave and doesn’t, so he shimmies his hips a little when slipping on the pants. _He knows that look_.

“I can see. Don’t get yourself killed if you do it again, would you? I don’t have very good insurance.”

“Well, I hope you do, ‘cause baby, I’m gonna give you heart palpitations.”

Wash shakes his head. “No. _No._ ”

Tucker nods his head, “Yes.”

And he, ever the socialite, finds himself in a party with a bottle in his hand and watches Blond Guy – apparently his name is North – talk to Wash and they look _kinda_ close, maybe they're a thing, he's good at discerning these, and even though the cute brunette girl beside him is pleasant, he’s wondering if it’s possible to call dibs on people. Has North called dibs? Because he’ll call dibs on Wash. Like, _right now._

He does.

“Dibs,” he says, coming up behind Wash and North. “He saw me naked first. I call dibs.”

“Dibs?” North questions, somewhat taken aback.

“Dibs. International Dibs Protocol. No Takebacks Accord.” Tucker places a hand on Wash’s shoulder. “See?”

Blond Guy shakes his head, like he’s never even _heard_ of the rules. “I never wanted dibs in the first place, Tucker.”

Tucker insists: “Dude, it still stands. Just putting it out there. Dibs.”

“I think you’ve said ‘dibs’ enough this evening,” Wash finally cuts in. “I don’t see how calling it is very fair to me, either.”

“You can call dibs on me.”

Wash slips a number into Tucker’s pocket on the way out. He thinks Wash is cute – like, cuter than the waitress at the café he normally visits, owned by his Number One Asshole Friend, Church.

But then again, the amount of times possible-partners have contacted him is a substantially low number. He imagines Church saying it’s ‘close to fuck nothing, which is pretty regular for you, Tucker.’

Then he remembers, preparing for bed later, he has Wash’s clothes and _his own_ clothes are back at the chick he was banging.

So sometimes things deviate from their normal paths, and Tucker’s pretty happy about that.

Well, sometimes he’s quick to make assumptions too, and that leaves him with a black eye. Case and point:

“Look, I just wanted my clothes back,” he mutters under his breath, standing outside Chick He Was Banging’s door, rehearsing what to say. “This wasn’t something _special_ , it was just sex—”

“You.”

“Aw, son of a bitch.”

So his nose is bleeding and he’s 72% sure he’s got at least four bruises, before his knight in shining armour comes to the rescue and gets off the dude beating the shit out of him. He hears the strong, angry voice, sounding very familiar to his recent memory, “Don’t you _touch_ him. He has his stuff there. Next time? I won’t be so nice.”

Tucker gets all his clothes and admires the _very_ fit arms of Wash and he thanks him profusely, because if there’s one experience Tucker’s always wanted it’s to be saved by a Hot Dude that also accepts you and gives you alcohol. Life doesn’t get better than that. Excluding sex, etcetera, etcetera as Tucker’s life motto went.

“Thanks, dude,” he adds again later, sitting in Wash’s kitchen with an ice pack and hot chocolate, ‘because hot chocolate cures all ails. At least that’s what York says. I don’t trust him often, not after the pineapple incident.’

He asked what happened but didn’t get a clear answer.

Wash leans across the bench, inspects the damage done. “I’m glad I got there in time, at least.”

“I coulda taken him.”

“You were doing so well before I came, I know,” Wash says, his brand of sarcasm practically _dripping_. Tucker _loves it_ already. “I’m calling North, though. You could have concussion.”

“What good’ll North do?”

“He’s a nurse.”

“Well, that’s convenient.”

North comes over like a worried dad about his kid at school – he’s known Tucker for all of twelve hours, even – and tenderly runs his hands over the wounds and makes Tucker focus his eyes on a finger, asks questions. “You’re lucky Wash was there.”

South huffs, leaning against the wall just beside the entrance to the kitchen, adds, “Yeah, looks like you got your dumb ass saved twice by our freckly friend over here. What are you, a hero?”

Wash shakes his head. “Lucky.”

“Well, you know what York says,” North adds, absent-mindedly.

Tucker smirks at Wash and mouths ‘pineapple’. Wash blushes. He wants to find out what happened.

Wash offers to drive him home, because apparently he’s also a gentleman and that’s not fair. Nobody’s allowed to be that nice without even a good fuck.

“Besides,” Wash begins, as they hop inside his car like they’ve done it _every day,_ and it's not the first 24 hours of knowing one another. “North says you need somebody around, in case there’s bad signs. You know. Concussion.”

Tucker nods his head. “Yeah, don’t want you having to save me a third time.”

“It would be nice if you avoided trouble.”

“Dude, she _never_ told me she had a boyfriend. I’m pretty clear of the blame here,” he replies, raises his hands up in defence.

He watches the grip of Wash’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. Wash notices him. “I still don’t like the image of you getting beat up, okay? Violence is never the solution.” He pauses. “Sometimes.”

“Uh huh.” Tucker fiddles with the radio and notices the annoyed look drift on Wash’s face when he changed it to the country station. He grins, bright white, flashes his perfect teeth. They _were_ one of his best assets, other than—

“So where exactly do you live?”

Fuck. “Keep heading north then go – um, you know, it’s near the Gulch café. You know the one.”

“Run by Church?”

“Yeah. That asshole.”

“Glad we agree.”

“Everybody thinks he’s an asshole. It’s the general consensus.” Tucker takes note of Wash’s driving. He’s learning a lot. “You drive like a grandma.”

“You do, when your best friend dies in a car accident.”

“Ah.”

So that’s a tender spot, apparently.

Wash stays _for hours._ And when he means ‘for hours’ he stays the rest of the day, the evening, and then falls asleep on Tucker’s couch. Tucker is no bad host, so he hoists the guy all the way to his guest room. Returning a favour is what Tucker does on the occasion, but the guy basically saved him from a broken nose that would look worse than Church’s _and_ saved his balls.

He’s making his coffee when Wash comes in the next morning, looking _kinda_ cute, well, okay, _really_ cute, just blinking in the morning light. “My back _hurts._ I never sleep in. What happened?”

Tucker blinks, wonders if he was drunk. No, he wasn’t. Damn. “I put you in the guest room. Figured – you know, that couch isn’t that nice. And Church did some things there with Tex. Don’t ask.”

“Right.”

“Coffee?”

“Sure.”

That becomes a thing, too. Like, a _major_ thing. Coffee every weekday, on accident – Wash walks in the Gulch when Tucker is there after the weekend, and apparently have opposing tastes in beans and flavouring.

“I still say the Mocha Kenya is the best,” Wash insists, stubborn. Stubborn was a very Wash trait, Tucker soon learns. “Especially with milk.”

“No. Black.” Tucker nods his head. “Church can agree, right? Church?” He tries to pander to Church standing with crossed arms, watching Caboose accept change.

“I’m not backing up your stupid fucking argument. Get married. Fuck off. Pay for your coffee.”

Wash grins like a vulture, and Tucker frowns-but-also-wants-to-smile-but-look-cool. So it’s a dilemma all around, really. That’s Wash, inasmuch.

He gets a text from Wash, one Thursday, to go grocery shopping and get dinner. _Yeah, dinner. It’s just fast food. That’s all._

Another fact Tucker learns: when cat food is on special, Wash buys it. Buys a _lot._ Two bags' worth.

“It’s cheaper,” he says, carrying the bags back to the car. “I save a lot.”

“Five cents a tin,” Tucker replies, with a shake of his head, opening the boot. “Really.”

“It adds up!”

“Uh huh.”

“Stop _saying that!”_ Wash almost _stomps_ around to the front seat.

“Uh—”

“I’m not driving you home.”

He does. Tucker sits at his spot – it’s been his spot since the second day they met – and reclines back as Wash puts away his groceries. For curiosity’s sake, he looks at the nicely defined arms on Wash and thinks _damn._ Then also notices the way he bends over and – well, his name isn’t Lavernius Tucker if certain thoughts didn’t come forth.

Then it comes out Wash is going on a business trip and needs clothes. So they buy clothes. They go _clothes shopping together._ They are not married, he insists to Church.

“Yeah, dude,” Church says, nods his head in that very facetious way he had, “And I’m actually a ghost. Look, _boo, motherfucker._ ”

“Shut up.” Tucker shakes his head. “You’re just seeing shit.”

“Like ghosts?”

“ _Go. Fuck yourself.”_

Church hands him his coffee. “Next time it will be Caboose that does your coffee.”

So then he feeds Wash’s cats for the time he’s away and then oh, no. Oh, _no._

He starts becoming a cat person.

“I’m pretty sure this is what he had planned,” he says to Church a day later. “This is it. He wanted to brainwash me.” He stops, face of borderline horror. ‘ _Brainwash._ Wash!”

“Yeah. He _planned_ on you being the moron to reach across a balcony. And then turn up _naked_ , get beat up by a dude, _save you_ , drive you home, and proceed to integrate you into his lifestyle across multiple months. Planned all along. You sleuth, Tucker.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Tucker grumbles.

“You say that when I’m right.”

“No, I say it when you’re an _asshole_.”

“I’m always right!” Caboose parrots in the background. “Caboose, the Mighty Righter!”

“Why does he work here?”

With a smile, Wash thanks Tucker for looking after his cats when he returns. Tucker shrugs and says he didn’t like them very much, but he did it in return for the help Wash had given him.

Wash questions why he’s saying that with Skylar seated on his lap, petting her like she’d sat there for weeks.

“Shut the fuck up.”

So then there’s a Christmas party, and York _is_ ever one for the cliché and Tucker _loves it_ – despite spending more time around Wash, he’s bumped into York on the odd moment – right up until he sees the mistletoe.

Mistletoe means two things. A) awkward, pretend kisses, or B) people he _really wants to kiss_.

Wash is there.

“Uh huh,” he says to a half-tipsy Wash. Their cheeks are flushed but still coherent, and the last few months are bubbling through his head like the cheap champagne York fed him. All the days are filled with freckles and blond hair and sweet smiles and sarcastic smiles and Church lecturing him and Caboose being Caboose and oh, he likes being a bit drunk around Wash, because his cheeks are so red and he looks almost like a cherub, and they’re walking and he sees the mistletoe and tries to move away because half-tipsy Tucker isn’t confident enough to do anything and he pretends to not see it until—

He feels Wash firmly grip his arms and dip his head down and he’s pretty sure this is what fairy tales are always about, the _kiss,_ the _moment_ , and it’s all very well and good and Wash has wonderfully chapped lips but he’s all so _sweet_ and kind of hard and rough and Christmas is his favourite because he has the opportunity to kiss Wash—

But then his drunken reverie is broken when it’s polite to, because you can’t stand making out under the mistletoe because that’s not really a done thing, is it?

He hides in the closet for the rest of the party. Ignores the irony.

Then Wash finds him, and he doesn’t look all that drunk anymore. Tucker isn’t drunk and Wash gives him a blank stare. “Let’s get us home.”

So he gets a taxi, because Wash is nothing if not a gentleman. He carefully leads Tucker out with a hand on his back, says, “Are you okay, Tucker?”

He receives no reply, and the dense air of the taxi hangs between them. The stench of the seats, coated in all its passengers, has a distinct scent that makes Tucker want to retch. Or maybe that plus—

“Are you coming?” he hears Wash ask, holding the door open for him, waiting to lead him up to his apartment.

Tucker shakes his head no. “Think I better go home.”

Funny he calls it ‘home’, he can see the unspoken words in Wash’s eyes, when more of his clothes were at Wash’s house and he hadn’t been back to his own house in a week. As he closes the door he watches a somewhat vacant expression find its way onto Wash’s face. A stoic look that came into his eyes when ‘best friend’ or ‘car accident’ was mentioned.

He doesn’t like that at all.

Sleep is an escape, then, to avoid that look – it’s not rejection, no, more like bitter acceptance of a fact. That happened. Understanding. He _hates_ it, so he drowns it out with sleep because it’s all too much, should he have kissed Wash? Should it have happened? It’s one thing to _dream_ of it and another thing to _do._

He awakes to furious texts. Well, as much as he can infer.

North’s is ever inquisitive, curt: “What happened explain”; York’s is the blunt: “he’s 100% into you you know that right”; South's… well, he was right she’s a ball-ripper. Like, she’s threatening it; were it not for Wash, as it goes, he would be castrated.

He ignores them and drowns out the memory of forlorn Wash and snow just beginning to fall because that’s _depressing,_ and it’s the festive season and he has family to see, of course he does, yes – absolutely.

Church and Tex (Allison, whatever) went on vacation, Caboose went down south to visit relatives because _he_ has more family around than Tucker, and he realises he’s sitting in an apartment not his, really, truly, not very homely at all, for several days _vegetating_ and insisting _Christmas, Christmas, Christmas,_ when he’d rather see Wash in a dumb Christmas crown or something because at least that would be so saccharinely sweet he almost blanches.

Almost.

Then he remembers Wash is probably not lonely at all and not upset, because he’s a cold motherfucker sometimes and decides the only way to warm his icy heart is with Chinese food and a six pack of beers.

Tucker _totally_ knows how to woo him. Totally.

He taps his leg, no rhythm to it, waiting for the sweet and sour shit he’d ordered to be ready. The steam that comes from the kitchen only further increases his impatience, because steam is _annoying_ and it swirls upwards and he smells the food cooking and he’s _almost there,_ so _close,_ to his normality, the sudden impact of one tiny event that blossomed an entire person, a whole extension of _self._ Or so it goes. Something borderline love. Tucker’ll get there.

He taps his foot and then he’s walking with a vengeance, okay, Wash’s isn’t that _far_ , in fact it’s walking distance but that much closer to his work he’d rather stay at Wash’s most days and it’s not his _fault_ Wash became everything. It just happened.

But he didn’t complain, so.

He doesn’t take the elevator because he wants his heart pounding, wants to look like he’s run for Wash because _Wash, baby, you make my heart beat,_ but you can’t run with takeaway and a six pack of beers, that’s just not a _done thing._ He tentatively knocks the door with his forehead and imagines North chastising him for hitting a precarious spot of his body, ignores it, because he’s holding onto a _six pack and Chinese food for Wash, and he better goddamned fucking be grateful_.

So the heavens collide, as it goes, on and on, there’s a slick and sweaty Wash with his shoulder up peering around the door and a bouncy boy behind him with blond hair that’s very not Tucker and it’s like all his insecurities in one person (white boy, blond hair, cute, cute, ethereal, gorgeous, energetic versus black just-over-twenty, black, kind of endearing but only slightly, sharply good looking, mostly bitter and quite unbothered by things – _except this, this fucking sucks, because Tucker feels his heart kind of doing that weird thing like when he was a teenager listening to bands waxing the angst and his head bobbing along but his head's not bobbing along now, it's quite a different thing, here)_.

“Oh,” he chokes it out like a ‘Oh, sorry for popping by, I’ll just toddle off,’ and he faintly hears Wyoming in his head and honestly this wasn’t what he was expecting.

So he says, “Oh,” again and kind of just stops because really, _Wash_? That quickly?

It’s a bit rude.

So he walks off, kind of a bit vacantly because really? Blond and bouncy?

Then he hears footsteps behind him and he kind of just wanders on, not really paying much attention because the next time he falls like that, well, he’s not gonna let it be someone that turns around like that. He hears ‘yoga’ excuses but Wash never did yoga, he was with Wash _constantly,_ Wash _laughed_ at yoga, he did so much other activity and he couldn’t do yoga because the cats got their fur on the yoga mats he tried once, anyway, and North never left his mats behind again and Tucker was left cleaning it and it’s not really fair.

Not really fair at all.

Then he looks at the freckles up close and Wash is guarding the elevator door and he’s actually not stark naked but it’s still altogether rather rude. Rude. He sounds like an old, prudish man.

Still not fair.

Then he’s wondering, well, he got altogether a bit confused, didn’t he? How everything seemed to just shift from ‘this’ to ‘that’ and he never had a chance to catch his breath, because suddenly it was ‘oh, Wash,’ then ‘oh, _Wash,’_ and attraction morphed into something serious and he’s not really good with serious, is he? And it’s not really his business what Wash does and really it’s not fair but Wash and he were _supposed_ to remain separate, but it looks like Tucker moved in before Wash did or maybe he moved _out,_ but he still doesn’t think Bouncy Blond is right for Wash when he’s got _Tucker_ here and Bouncy Blond probably won’t even feed his cats.

And it’s just not very fair. Especially when he turns out he’s said all this out loud, add quote marks, honey, and Wash is just kind of smiling sweetly and he decides that’s his favourite smile, right there, that kind of ‘Oh, _you_ ,” and it’s ‘you, you, _you,_ ’ and it’s so _them_ and he really, honestly decides right there—

That he kisses quite well and Wash, oh, Wash. Okay.

Then there’s a blooming bit of hope and it’s still not quite fair, no, because his lips are all oily and he decides he likes Chapped Wash and the dryness and roughness of a mistletoe kiss and decides he wants that spontaneity every day. He hears a ‘Was that okay?’ because Wash is a fucking _gentleman_ who on the second day of knowing him nursed him through a possible concussion. Prior to saving him from a Big Dude about to almost fucking bludgeon him to death, and the day before saved him from his own bare ass and _cold cold cold_ and Wash is _warm warm warm._

So he says, “No, that’s not.” Pauses. “You’ll have to try again,” he adds, setting down the Chinese food and six pack and kissing Wash because, well, he called dibs.

“No takebacks,” Tucker says, pulling away.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comment~~~ hahaha lets me know if it's all right. Thank you for reading.  
> ♥(✿ฺ´∀`✿ฺ)ﾉ♡o｡.(✿ฺ｡ ✿ฺ)｡ﾟ✲☆
> 
> Pineapple supposedly makes your cum taste like pineapple, if you eat enough of it. Run with it from there.


End file.
